Grinch
by McStaken
Summary: Calendar Man is back in Gotham, plotting murders around the theme of Christmas. Harvey Bullock lost his man years ago - but this time he's determined to catch him.
1. Santa

_Santa_

An overdone song about letting something go was playing in the background radio of the precinct. He'd heard that song fifteen times this week. Three of those times were on the radio as he drove into work this morning.

Someone had seen fit to decorate the duty room. Dusty tinsel and old cut-out's of Santa and his reindeer - complete with yellowing tape to patch the torn, frayed edges - littered the walls. The Drunk Tank's patron was wearing a Santa hat that was about two minutes away from becoming a receptacle for puke.

It had only just become December, temperatures had plummeted to below freezing. It was too cold to snow, too cold to do much more than shiver and already, Detective Harvey Bullock wanted to shoot himself, or maybe just the radio if they played that damn song one more time.

Ah, the holidays.

'I hate Christmas,' Bullock groaned as Gordon flipped open several files that lay across his desk.

'Yeah well, A group of Carolers got mugged last night. Wallets, watches, phones - even the donation bucket. A couple of homeless people ended up in accident and emergency last night over a scuffle involving blankets and squat spots, they're all claiming assault-'

'Ho ho ho.' Bullock brooded. Maybe the idiots who stuck their heads in ovens had a point. There did seem to be a little something bleak about Gotham in the holidays.

'Come on Bullock, it's Christmas!'

'Yeah? Let me give you some Yuletide cheer, shall I?' Bullock grunted. 'Shoplifting rises, muggings, assaults, murders - they don't disappear like most people think, they get _worse_. People freeze to death in their own homes because they can't afford to eat and keep warm at the same time, people get _desperate_ at this time of the frigging year - don't you ever tell me to cheer up because it's fucking Christmas.' He slumped back down into his chair as Gordon stared at him. 'What?!"' Bullock growled.

'I never thought you'd be a Grinch at Christmas,' Gordon returned. 'I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised.'

'Hey! This city, it eats you alive man. You think I'd be happy as Larry that our workload just quadrupled?' He demanded and flung a hand across the desk, as if exhibiting the evidence of a heinous crime. Files and paperwork littered the surface, completely covering the chipped wood. Paperwork should carry the death sentence.

'No, I guess you're right.' Gordon sighed.

'What was that?' He cupped his hand to an ear theatrically which caused Gordon to glare at him. But he and his stare weren't particularly frightening to _kittens_. To Bullock, he just looked like an idiot who hadn't understood the question.

'I said you were right, Bullock. Don't be an ass.' Gordon flatly replied. 'Do you think you could manage _a little_ Christmas cheer?' He asked.

'Maybe, if they actually give us Christmas bonuses this year.' He grunted. Now there was a Christmas Miracle. They hadn't paid bonuses for the precinct since Aubrey James came into office. _There_ was a coincidence a mile long.

His brooding was interrupted by a familiar shout he'd become accustomed to honing in on.

'Bullock, you're up on the wheel!' The duty sergeant called from the desk. 'Over on 12th.'

'Give me a break Charlie!' Bullock pleaded across the room. He was not planning on heading out into the driving, icy wind and rain. He'd been planning on faking overdue paperwork to avoid it. Hell, maybe if he bothered looking, he'd find some on the clutter that was his desk.

Below them, the drunk finally palmed his hat off his head and retched.

'You got yourself a ho ho ho-micide detective!' Came the cheery reply, which just put him in an even fouler mood.

'Fuck you!' Bullock roared from his desk as patrol cops tittered and chuckled around him. 'That's not even funny!'

Charlie muttered something that sounded like 'Scrooge.'

'So much for Christmas cheer,' Gordon replied.

'Listen, I don't pry into your life, you stay out of mine.' He picked up and pointed his hat at him as he made his point and then shoved it onto his head. 'Let's get this overwith.'

* * *

They stared at the corpse that was hanging from the tree. Feathers spewed from a rip in his fake belly when the wind caught him and fell to the wet grass below.

The white fur on his cuffs was covered in dirt and heavy with water from the freezing shower last night. Greasy white hair clung to his forehead and face as the wind and rain tousled it. The boots were shiny for their cold wash and sparkled after the rains had polished them. It was still trying to rain on them now, icy little drops of cold that fell from the sky.

'Well, I guess this means I'm not on the naughty list anymore,' Bullock quipped.

Gordon tore his eyes away from the bloated features of the man in the red suit and towards Bullock incredulously. 'You're actually pleased that Santa's dead, aren't you?'

'Why would I be pleased? It means I've got to _investigate_ his death,' Bullock returned.

'That's not the point-' Gordon was almost blinded by the flash of the camera. 'Ed, do you mind?!' He grunted and lifted an arm to shield his face from the harsh light.

'Sorry detective, but isn't this just _fascinating_?' Edward gushed and took the opportunity to take another photograph.

A breeze caught the stiff stiff and blew more feathers out of the jagged cut to his padding. They fell like big fat snowflakes as the city around them froze half to death. It was too cold to snow, but plenty cold to make him wish it would. The rainfall -when it did fall - felt like little bullets. Bullock was never going to be warm again, he was sure of it.

'In mythology, Santa Clause, or Saint Nicholas used to be pictured in green to match the forest. He also has a counterpart named Krampus that steals away naughty children.' Ed snickered, as though he'd found a particularly amusing joke.

'As long as he stays the hell away from Gotham,' Bullock grumbled and tried to hunker down in his jacket a little more.

Edward threw a look to Gordon who mouthed 'Bad mood. Grinch,' and pointed at Bullock behind his back.

'You know, I can see you doing that,' He growled lowly.

Gordon hurried to cover up his actions and coughed. 'Thanks Ed,' He smiled at the tech sheepishly and then turned back to the corpse. 'What kind of nutjob targets Santa?'

'Maybe he didn't like his presents?' Bullock replied shrewdly.

'Yeah,' Gordon grunted hopelessly. 'Maybe.'

They approached the swaying corpse. You had to get really up close and personal to notice the smell. He was ripe, of stale sweat but only a hint of decay. He must have been up for at least the last few days, judging by how sodden the poor guy was. With the snowfall and early nights - not many people bothered visiting the parks which was probably why a man in a bright red and white Santa suit had gone unnoticed for so long.

'He stepped forward but paused as something squished below him.

So help him God, if that was dog shit on his shoe-

It was a stained, muddy mass of synthetic fibers on wire. Maybe once it had been arranged into a flowing beard and mustache, now it stuck up at odd angles.

'Found his beard,' He grunted.

Gordon sniffed around the tree and bushes until he reappeared with the half-moon glasses one would normally associate with Santa. 'Got his glasses. They're plastic...' He muttered and gave the "lenses" a flick.

'Yeah well, he mustn't have been a very good one.' Bullock considered. 'Shitty fake beard and all.'

Something seemed to occur to Gordon and a shrewd look came over his features. 'You hate Christmas because Santa disappointed you, don't you?'

'You caught me, i'm so emotionally wounded.' Bullock scoffed. 'Check his jacket, see if it's got a makers ID.'

Gordon dutifully pulled a pen and peeled open a section of the belted jacket, mindful of the stuffing. On the bottom of the jacket, near the belly, something was pinned to the material.

'What is this?' Gordon plucked free a soiled piece of paper in curiosity, only to have Bullock snatch it from him in sudden froth. It was heavily stained but the marker **_December 24th - Christmas Eve_** could be made out despite the wet runoff.

'Sonovafuckingbitch!' He seethed.

'Bullock?!' Gordon demanded alarmed. Even Ed paused in snapping some beauty shots of the victim to stare at him, but all sense of where he was seemed to fade as he stared down at the innocent flap of paper. It was exactly like the sort designed to sit on a desk and be tore off day after day to mark the monotony. It looked like something the captain had on her desk, but he stared at it as though it were an unexploded bomb. Hell, it could have been.

The last time he'd seen one of these...

'Do you know what this is?!' He waved the flimsy, browned paper in Gordon's face.

'Uh, no.'

'He's back.' Bullock snarled. 'Julian Day's back.'

'Who is Julian Day?' Gordon frowned.

Bullock seemed to gain some composure on himself and shoved the paper at Ed who caught it sheepishly. He then approached his partner and squared up to him. 'You seriously don't know who that is?'

'When you're fighting a war, it's hard to keep up with current events,' Gordon replied diplomatically.

'He's a terrorist who goes by the name of The Calendar Man.'

* * *

A/N:

Hello again kiddies! Shhh. I know, I know. I have an overactive imagination with nothing else to spend it on. Personally, I'm blaming my friends for not stopping me. I'm also blaming my absolute love of Harvey Bullock. Now, that being said, I'm not going to be silly and promise an update every week. Lord knows, I've already got one weekly gig going. Another may kill me. But I will promise some semi-regular updates to come.

I should also be ashamed of the "Ho-ho-ho-micide" line. I am not.

Now this started - note that word, it's important - it _started_ as just an excuse to write Bullock being a lovable Scrooge and it morphed into this. So welcome to Grinch! Hold on tight!


	2. My Case!

_My case!_

Bullock raised a hand and pulled off his hat. The other raked through his hair.

God he'd kill for a drink, or maybe a dozen because his mind was suddenly abuzz with memories he had no desire to give space. Things he hadn't thought of in years - things he wished he'd never have to think of again.

'What do you mean he's back?' Gordon frowned. 'He's been here before?'

He suddenly snapped back into the scene he'd left just by seeing that piece of paper. He regretted going off on the kid but that one scrap was like waving a red cloth at a bull. It provoked reaction. 'Come on, there's nothing to really do here,' Bullock grunted at the silent tableau. This place was starting to unnerve him, or maybe it was Santa hanging from the tree - or even the memories that plagued him as he watched Ed drop the thin sheet into an evidence bag and seal it.

'But the Medical Examiner hasn't even confirmed dea-'

'Even I can tell that he'd been dead a while!' Bullock snarled, his hackles well and truly up. Just knowing Julian Day was back in the city made his hand itch for his gun. It's too cold to snow, Santa's dead and now the thirteenth most wanted man in America was on their doorstep, leaving_ presents._

'Uh, do you want this back detective?' Ed held up the date between thumb and forefinger.

'No I don't "want it back"!' Bullock returned, regaining some of the sassiness he'd lost. 'That's your job, genius. Analyze it.'

Without another word - he stalked off. It didn't take Gordon long to follow him and he threw him looks as he struggled to keep pace to the squadcar.

'What was that about?'

'None of your damn business.' He grunted and began his ritualistic pocket-hunt for keys. Gordon seized the extra moments to continue his line of questioning.

'You've blown your top at me and now Ed, come on man, what's going on?' He asked.

_If only he knew,_ Bullock thought. _He wouldn't ask such stupid questions. _If there was one thing a cop hated more than anything else - more than scumbags who preyed on kids, or drug takers beating up old women - it was other cops interrogating them. 'Look, what about you dropping this matter is so hard?'

'The dropping it part.' He answered almost immediately.

Oh for the love of - The kid was using his own sarcasm against him now! He finally found his keys and shoved them into the lock with more malice than required. Without answer - he yanked open the door and slid behind the wheel. 'Are you getting in, or are you just going to stand there and model for Santa?' He demanded acidly, through his open window.

Gordon gave a suffering sigh before he walked around to the passenger side door.

_Ho ho fucking ho. _

* * *

The precinct was as mad as it had ever been. The only difference was that the place was now overlaid with the smell of vomit and the stench of the streets as the patron of the Drunk Tank and the homeless hobos fought for dominance over smell. So far - the homeless hobos were winning.

Captain Essen's office was thankfully free from the smell below. Gordon shifted in the corner and noticed Bullock's nervousness as Essen paced through his frankly dismal case update. The veteran hadn't even allowed him to get his soaking coat off before he'd dragged him up to Essen.

'So?' She demanded before they'd even finished debriefing. 'Is it true? Is he back?'

Word travels fast when it comes to cops. They're worse gossips than the average housewife. It comes with being the official prodnoses of Gotham city. Essen seemed desperate for rumor to be false this time. Bullock sighed, but nodded, confirming her fears. 'He's back.'

'Oh God.' Essen looked as though she were ready to hit the bottle, or hand in her badge. 'You're sure?' She asked in one last-ditch attempt for him to change it.

'We found a daily calendar page pinned to the inside of the victim's jacket. Ed has it now,' Bullock grunted and ran a hand down his beard in thought. 'It's not exactly his M.O. but we think-'

'Get it back, give everything you've got to Major Crimes.' She ordered.

'What? No way!' Bullock suddenly tensed. 'This is my case!'

'Major Crimes have put in a request for case referral.' Sarah Essen glared at her subordinate, holding it even after Bullock strode across the room like a predator and put his hands on either side of the desk to glare back at her.

'I want this case.' He replied deliberately.

'So do MCU.' She returned in a glacial tone. 'Get your hands off my desk.' They stared at each other a minute longer before Bullock removed them with exaggerated care.

'Captain, don't give this to Major Crimes.' He pleaded softly. Gordon blinked. He knew Bullock hated the MCU but He'd never seen him _plead_ for a case. Not plead. He'd bluffed and shouted and cursed - called in favours he owed and several that his _friends_ owed to get a case, or even to dump one but never pleaded.

'Why not? They want it, I don't.' She returned. 'He's classified as a terrorist, it's within their right to request this one.'

'I know how this guy thinks, I can get to him faster than any of those jackasses,' He returned gruffly. 'I just need a _chance_.' And there it was, the wheedle in his voice again. Stronger this time.

'Are you sure you don't have a personal interest in this?' She probed quizzically. Gordon had to wonder the same thing. Harvey Bullock never groveled. Not to the mayor, not to the mob, not even to Carmine Falcone himself. But here he was...Groveling for this case. This case. Why was it so important to him? From the moment he saw that calendar page, he'd become obsessed with being lead investigator on this case.

'I'm nothing but professional!' Bullock growled. 'My results are _one hundred percent_ unbiased.'

Essen quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. 'A hundred percent, eh? Alright, I'll give you this.'

Bullock sagged in relief. 'Thank you capta-'

'But- you've got three strikes.' She continued. 'You lose two more victims, there is no way on this earth that I am keeping this case - it will go to Majors. Are we clear?'

'As crystal, captain. I can get him before then.' Bullock returned confidently.

'Good.' She grunted and turned to the papers that littered her desk. 'God knows what I'm going to tell the mayor. Get out of my office and go do your jobs.'

They found themselves back out in the duty room. The hubbub around them was manic. Snatches of six different conversations going on around them as they stood in uncomfortable silence.

'Why did you want this case so bad?' He asked Bullock. The detective threw him a glare and shoved his hat back on his head.

'What did I tell you about prying into my life?' He grunted and took off towards the outer doors.

'Hey, where're you going?!' Gordon demanded.

'Prying into my life kid! Stop it!'

Jim Gordon watched Harvey Bullock slip out of the doors and into the rain. He stood there for a few seconds, silently fuming that once again, he'd been left out of the loop. Well that wasn't going to stand. He walked out towards the Records room and to find the records on Julian Day/Calendar Man. If Bullock wasn't going to tell him, he'd find out himself.

* * *

She doesn't know it yet, but she's been chosen, Just like the man before her. She has been chosen and she will die.

She wasn't chosen in any traditional sense - not for her beauty, or her charm. Not because she's one of the destitute of this city - because he knows her.

He knows her, in the pit of his soul.

He finds it ironic in a way. The day of the virgin birth - he plans on delivering anything but an innocent. He watches from a window as she drums up business with a flash of leg.

_"Holly and mistletoe, Candles and bells, I know the message that each of you tells." _

He wonders if she's aware of his gaze, or his intent.

Behind him, the work goes on. Always the work. Idly, as though he is only half-knowing, he reaches down and tears a sheet from a small desk calendar.

He lets it flutter to the floor.

He has missed it here. Nothing is quite the same as Gotham. He has given his gifts - his art - to many cities more distinguished, more renown, more interesting. But always - he returns to Gotham. The squalid, squatting city. He feels comfortable here, he feels at home.

She fails to find her mark, none seem interested. She sags dejected and pulls a cigarette from between her breasts. She cups it as she lights it against the freezing wind and rain and for a minute, her features take on a ghoulish tableau.

She must be desperate, to be out on a day like this, wearing so little. Indeed - she shivers under the leather jacket.

He wonders if he should go down and introduce himself? No-one would miss her for a few days. Oh he isn't planning on using her services - something of that nature has never interested him - he wants her to follow. He wants her close for what is to come. She would be instrumental.

Idly, he rips out another page and stares down at it.

_**December 26th - Boxing Day.**_

* * *

The quote in italics is from Leland B. Jacobs - Mrs. Ritters First Grade Critters.

Chapter two! Oh Major Crimes wants this case bad. They haven't even waited for the poor GCPD to screw up and lose another before they jump on it. Bullock doesn't want to give them it for some reason.

And Hellooooo new watchers/favouriters/reviewers! God I hope the second chapter lives up to the first!

Also: This is rated T. Mainly because - Bullock. There will be swear words.


	3. First Class Delivery

_First Class Delivery_

Kristin Kringle ruled a space not much bigger than your average office but the Records Room was lined, ceiling to floor, with filing cabinets handling everything from the Abramovici brothers to Maxie Zeus (Case being established) and beyond. It held the GCPD's cases stretching back years - decades. If Calendar Man had been in the city before - And judging by Bullock's haunted expression, he had - Jim Gordon would find it here.

He approached cautiously, since she had been known to be ruthless with a clipboard and knocked.

'Ms Kringle?'

'Yes?' She popped up from behind a set of filing cabinets. 'Are you here for something?' She frowned. Her glasses flashed. 'Mr. Nygma hasn't sent you has he?'

Ed? Sent him? For what?!

'N-no. I'm here for the Julian Day file.' He placated. 'Ed didn't send me.'

She gave him a sharp look that reminded him of a junior school teacher he used to know. The look always made him want to cringe away. Eventually, she turned down to the clipboard in her hands and scowled. 'Even without Mr Nygma's misguided intentions, Detectives Montoya and Allen requested the file from me earlier.'

Damn. Montoya and Allen were the ones pushing for this case?

'You could always try lock-up.'

'Huh?' He turned to look at her, her lips set in a thin line.

'Evidence Lock-up? They usually keep a brief file on the case with the evidence and some backup photos...Just don't tell Mr Nygma I sent you,' She pleaded

He could slap himself. Of course! They always kept two files, one with the evidence and one recorded in the records room. 'Thank you Ms Kringle,' He smiled. 'I'll be sure not to share that with him.'

The Evidence Lock-up did indeed have a backup file. The place was a cave, freezing cold everywhere but the tiny caged office that held case files, box locations and the all important back-up files. People sometimes got lost in the warehouse of shelving and reams upon reams of cardboard. This place always smelled of paper, card and Sharpie.

Edward spent what little time not doing his job, doing the Morgue's job or trying to get the attentions of Kristin Kringle, here. Helping maintain the system that only he really understood. No-one else would touch it. The price for the file was listening to Edward speaking in anagram. 'It was a _Serum Ego_ case, as I recall.'

'I wouldn't know Ed, I need to see the file first.' He deadpanned and glanced around.

'Before my time of course but I do tend to enjoy reading the older casefiles and finding mistakes. _Almanac Rend_ was a particularly interesting Perp.'

'Ed,' Gordon groaned. 'Could you hurry up?' It was - if possible - even colder in here than it was outside and Edward seemed completely oblivious to it.

'Of course, detective. You're a busy man. Apologies. Here!' He handed him the case with a smile. 'Did you try the Records Room first? Did Ms Kringle send you over?' He asked hopefully.

Gordon paused. 'Thank you for the file, Ed.'

'Detective? Detective!'

* * *

It wasn't encouraging - the thing was basically less than a dozen sheets of paper and a sealed envelope of photographs. It was easy enough to carry over to his desk since his partner had disappeared without a word to do something probably illegal that he didn't want Gordon to see.

He threw the file down on his desk and pulled the chair out to sit when the sounds of obnoxious squeaking could be heard from down below. Several people were shouting an whining at the incessantly grating noise.

He glanced over the balcony nosily to see a courier struggling to wheel a huge crate into the middle of the precinct floor.

'Got a delivery for Gordon and Bullock?' He shouted.

'Up here!' Gordon called, utterly confused. Was this from Falcone or Maroni? Cobblepot?

'Well maybe you could come down here and sign for it Mr policeman?' The courier asked irritably. 'I got things to do and I want this thing outta my hair.'

Gordon skipped down the stairs and took the irritated courier's clipboard, but didn't sign. 'I didn't order anything,' He grunted as he inspected the paperwork. The only thing that indicated what lay in the box was a huge red rubber stamped _**FRAGILE** _across the letters.

'Look man, can you just sign?'

'What's in the box?' He questioned suspiciously.

'The hell am I meant to know man? The company frown on that kind of snoopin'. Plausible deniability and all that. If there's a body in there, I know nothing.' He chucked.

'Nothing,' Gordon deadpanned and the laughter died in the silence.

Perhaps Bullock had sent it, off on whatever dubious errand he'd felt disinclined to share.

'Alright,' Gordon sighed and signed with a hurried flourish. He could have argued - but that would mean obtaining a warrant to the company to confiscate the unknown box that may or may not contain something gruesome. Signing the declaration gave him ownership - for good or bad and allowed him to crack open the crate immediately.

'Cheers!' The courier accepted the clipboard and pen enthusiastically. 'Glad to have that thing off my truck.'

He left, all but skipping.

'What's in the box, Gordon?' Alvarez frowned as Essen appeared from her office to find out why none of her employees were working.

'I have no idea.' He frowned.

'Here,' One of the curious officers handed him a crowbar that had an evidence tag dangling from it and suspicious rust stains. 'Crack that thing open!'

He sank the sharp point into the wood which splintered with a satisfying noise. The top had been nailed down very well, it took him a good three or four tries even with the full brunt of his weight on the crowbar but eventually - the wood succumbed and the nails loosened their grip. The lid popped free.

He shoved the board off the crate and peered down as a crowd formed around him.

'Jesus fucking Christ!' Someone murmured as the crowbar hit the tile and bounced.

* * *

A/N: You can probably all guess what's in there and it wasn't Alvarez's Amazon delivery.

Slightly shorter - alright a LOT shorter than the last two but the next chapter will be full length. Scout's honour.

Did I mention this was T for a reason? It is. Potty mouths.

The anagrams Edward speaks are in order: _Gruesome _And _Calendar Man._


	4. Giftwrapped

_Gift-Wrapped_

'Come on Fish, you remember Calendar Man, don't you?'

'Harvey, I remember a lot of men.' She teased coquettishly.

'I bet you do,' He replied with a smirk. 'But Julian Day...Now he's not your average sort of guy.'

'Julian Day.' She sat back and let her fingers curl in on themselves as she cast her mind back. 'Butch darling, do you remember a Julian Day?'

'Can't say that I do, Fish.' The large man over Bullock's shoulder returned.

Bullock opened his mouth to _remind_ her exactly what Day was - which was scummier than dishwater, no-one would protect something like that, this was business, not war after all - but paused as his phone vibrated and sang in his pocket, indicating yet another call coming through. Goddamn, someone really wanted his frigging attention. For a second, just a second, he thought it may have been their perp, come to gloat but that wasn't Day's style. Not at all.

'You going to get that, Harvey?' Fish asked and glanced at his pocket as it jingled its way through a bugle call. He let the moment pass and the phone roll to voicemail.

'Oh come on. This isn't charades. The guy's a terrorist! Gets off on making people fit wierd-ass holiday themes-'

Fish suddenly looked helpful. 'Ah! Now I remember. Wasn't that ten years ago? My, my Harvey. Why does it have your attention now?'

'We found Santa.' He replied grimly and laid one of Edward's glossy photographs on the table. Showing the slightly bloated features of their mornings Mr Clause.

'Well isn't that a shame,' She glanced down and then up at Bullock with a smile. 'Kids will be disappointed.'

'I want to hear what you hear, alright?'

'Hmmm. Sure thing, Harv. Terrorism is bad for business, after all.' She sat back with the photo and Bullock knew it was a long shot, but like the lady had said, it was bad for business and people like her - people like Falcone were all about business.

His gracious interview was coming to an end and he stood to be escorted out by Butch. It was a good job Falcone had promised no harm to them, otherwise he had the distinct impression Butch would get the nod to put the boot in.

If they did hear anything, he highly doubted it would come from her or Butch directly, probably a third party. Outside in the chilly air, he shivered and dug into a filthy pocket lined with fast food napkins for his phone. What was so damn important they left sixteen messages and-

He held the phone to his ear to listen to a voicemail and stalled.

_'SONOVAFUCKINGBITCH!'_ He began hunting hurriedly for keys as the voicemail prattled on, completely forgotten.

* * *

'Hey man, It's Gordon again. In case you missed the other five voicemails - I need you back at the precinct. We've got another body,' Gordon sighed and looked towards the open crate that Nygma was crawling over with a magnifying glass as he dictated his third message. 'Call me back when you finish doing whatever illegal and Immoral-'

_**SLAM.**_

The precinct doors flew open and Bullock appeared in a flurry of rain and freezing tendrils. He dripped on the tile, spotted Ed and immediately stormed over.

'Where the hell were you?' Gordon ran indignant interference to protect Ed from his wrath.

'Where do you think I was? Mooney's.' He grunted.

'Oh. _Her_.'

'Less of your self-righteous crap, okay? I got us some leads.' Bullock lied easily. It wasn't like he was decieving the kid, eventually Fish would come up with something and Bullock could say _I told you so_.

'What did it cost you?' He asked scathingly.

'Why's it got to cost anything? Fish knows a loony like Calendar Man running around is not good for business.'

'I'm surprised.'

'_I'm surprising._ What've we got?' He asked, nodding to the crate. 'Ed?'

'This one is relatively fresh. Probably some time in the last 48 hours-' Ed muttered as he scoured the outside of the box with a magnifying glass. 'Signs of manual compression of the-'

'Ed, I don't need you sciencing at me either.' Bullock growled. 'Start talking English.'

'_Sciencing?_'

'Shut up.'

Taped to the side of the box was a sealed sleeve containing one thing - A tear off calendar sheet that read Dec. 26th. Underneath that was the tagline: Boxing Day. Bullock pulled the plastic sleeve free with a sigh and examined it, as though it would magically not become linked to their case.

Inside the box, packed with straw like the finest china was the fetal body of a woman. She was dressed like a streetwalker, dyed blonde hair, skintight clothes that were too skimpy for this time of year and heavily made up with cheap products. Her skin was sallow and grey, it could be the fact she was dead - but he suspected that she had been freakishly white to start with - that made her look washed out.

Gently, he rolled an arm and noted the various marks that crisscrossed her veins.

Drug user. Turning tricks.

His mind began to work. She had to have a pimp that was missing her, didn't she? She had to have family - scummy as it was. She could have a record here, been busted after failing to pay her protection fee. All possible points of ID.

'What's with the box?' Gordon asked. 'Why not just giftwrap her?'

'I dunno. Do I look like a psychopath?' He grunted as he worked through the angles.

'I'm not going to answer that.'

Bullock threw him a glare and then turned his attention to the one clue that Calendar Man ever left at his crime scenes.

'Someone look up what the hell Boxing Day is!' Bullock roared to the assembled cops.

'I can answer that for you detective!'

Bullock sighed. 'Without a riddle, Ed?'

'Boxing Day in Britain was a custom for tradesmen to collect "Christmas boxes" of money or presents on the first weekday after Christmas as thanks for good service throughout the year. Since they would have to wait on their masters on Christmas Day, the servants of the wealthy were allowed the next day to visit their families. The employers would give each servant a box to take home containing gifts and bonuses, and maybe sometimes leftover food.'

'That's fucking insulting.'

'Isn't putting a body in a box for Boxing Day a bit...overdone and tacky?' Gordon quirked an eyebrow.

'Everything about Christmas is overdone and tacky,' Bullock replied. 'We've lost two now. We lose a third and it gets kicked to Major Crimes.' He brooded.

'But there was no chance of saving the first victim and he didn't give us a chance to save this one!' Gordon railed.

'Doesn't matter. The Major Crimes bunch want Calendar man as bad as we do.' He sighed heavily. 'Come on, the pathologist just finished with Santa.'

'So soon?'

'I may have given him a few pointers about why he should bump our John Doe up the queue. Starting with the fact he'll lose a few teeth.' Bullock replied matter-of-factly.

'And why has he not put a complaint in about you?' Gordon asked acidly at his partner's treatment of their colleagues.

'Because the department doesn't give a rats ass, as long as we get results.'

'But if the pathologist just finished with the corpse, how are we meant to get the repo-'

'I know someone' He replied easily.

'You know someone?' Gordon frowned. 'Someone you haven't threatened?'

'That may be hard to believe but trust me. This girl, you don't need to threaten.'

'Girl?!'

* * *

A/N: Me again! Don't shoot! I couldn't resist! I swear. Yes, it's a sort of cliffhanger but I'm sure anyone who has read Morgue Files will know who they're talking about. Maybe. Hopefully.

Anyway, here's the long awaited fourth chapter! See you after Christmas!


	5. Fun and Games

**Chapter 5 - Fun and games**

'Who exactly is Bernie Lynch?' Gordon frowned as they walked out into the howling wind - but at least it had stopped raining. Stormclouds still hung heavy and oppressive over the city and the wet pavement was just starting to freeze over - it crackled as they walked against the wind to the building just down the street.

'She's our ticket into an early pass. So be nice.' Bullock warned him.

'Nice.' Gordon gave him a sidelong look as though he rather doubted Bullock's ability to be nice. Hey, he could be nice! He could be damn nice, it was just a shame many people weren't nice to him.

They walked into the morgue reception, which was bare with it's chipped paintwork and uncomfortable seats. There were no Christmas decorations here. It was deemed too cheery for their kind of work. Bullock sauntered up to the chipped wooden desk, separated by baroque reinforced glass and smiled at the woman behind the screen. Her face was several shades darker than her neck and hair which was piled up in some sort of messy bleach blonde bun. She was wearing way too much make-up in Bullock's opinion but that was apparently all the rage now. They looked worse than hookers. At least the savvy ones toned it back to only accentuating the _decent_ aspects of their face. The bits the meth hadn't touched yet, anyway.

'Hi Christine.' He smiled.

'Detective Bullock. Whaddaya want?' She huffed.

'Is Bernie working today?' He wheedled.

Christine levelled a look at him. He slid a packet of smokes across the desk without even breaking eye contact.

'Sure she's in.' Christine smiled and tucked away the packet for later as Gordon did a world-class eye roll behind them.

'Can you tell us where we'd find her?' Bullock simpered. 'It's important.'

She clicked her long fake nails on the gashed and overly varnished wood. 'Now there's a thing. Important huh?'

He growled and dug into his pocket. A small packet of something green that once had evidence tape wrapped around it was traded and that went to the same place under the counter as the cigarettes.

'Radiology labs, detective.' She winked. 'You didn't hear it from me.'

'You're a star Christine.' He smiled as she buzzed them through. 'Don't ever change!'

The techies were always oddballs. The trick was to find some weak-willed little scurrier and apply pressure until the desired effect - or until mental breakdown. As squints went, Bernie had lasted some time against his abrasive personality. He attributed that to the fact she was Scottish and his rude, unkempt, brash manner was really the cultural norm. Or so he heard.

Whatever the reason, Bernie was spineless and long lasting and he liked that. Gordon would learn the values of finding someone just like her to pump for early pass information.

Bernie Lynch was a diminutive, frizzy haired woman who was wrapped in a tartan scarf and latex gloves in a room no bigger than a cupboard. She was hunched over the desk, seemingly engrossed in something.

'Bernie!' Bullock yelled, more for entertainment purposes than any perceived deafness.

She startled and nearly upset the tray of bone she had been rearranging before she whipped around to look at them. Her nose was red and resembled a cherry in both shine and colour. The whites of her eyes were as pink as her cheeks, her skin was sallow. It reminded him of the crate body they'd just had the pleasure of owning.

Bernie Lynch looked like death warmed up. Bullock took a hasty step back, Whatever she had, he didn't want it.

'Detective.' She glowered. Her accent was thicker with the bunged up nose. As if she needed the help to make her unintelligible some days.

'Hey Bernie.' He grinned horribly. 'You don't look so good. Flu?'

She sniffled under the scarf. 'Aye.'

'Shame. You see Santa?' He asked idly. He ignored Gordon's look. The man had the distinct impression this was more like a subtle interrogation than an easy, friendly chat. Maybe there was hope for him after all, if he ever learned to play along.

Her eyes drifted to Gordon and then back to Bullock. 'Aye, I did. Who-'

'New kid. Say hi Jim.'

'Hi Jim.' He grunted. Bullock turned to give him a frown but then turned back to his original quarry.

'You did the assist for Santa, didn't you?'

'Oh no...No yer not pulling this crap with me-' She shrank back against the desk.

'We_ really_ need to know, Bern.' He wheedled.

'Ah'm no' ye personal-!'

'Bernie.'

She sagged heavily.

'If ah tell ye, will ye leave me alone?'

'Promise.' Bullock simpered.

'Th' victim wus in bad shape. Santangelo hazarded tha' he wus probably strangled before he wus hauled up tha' tree. Probably tryin' ter hide method of death. Mebbe a few weeks ago? Just before the snow hit. He put up a little bittie fight, not surprising but he'd been washed. Not very well, but someone washed him. Would account for the amount of ice.' She squirmed. ' Ed has whut's left. Is tha' all? Ah've got to get back to these X-Rays-'

'No, that isn't all. There's a lovely lady in a box, waiting for you downstairs Bernie.' Bullock smirked horribly as they turned to leave. 'And she's _dying_ to _meet_ you.'

'Yer a grinch Harvey Bullock! A bampot grinch!' She yelled after him ignobly.

'What's a bampot?' Gordon asked as the door snapped shut behind them.

'Eh, an idiot.' He noticed Gordon's look. 'She throws that one at me a lot.' He admitted with a shrug.

'That does not surprise me.'

* * *

'So our Santa has a record.' Gordon sat heavily at his desk and spread the rather thick file across the middle. Bullock looked up from the full pathologist's report. It was mostly the same as Bernie described. Strangled, soaked, strung up in his own suit again. What little the pathologist had gathered had been sent to Ed and the shrink squad.

'Wait, wait, wait.' Bullock smirked. 'Let me guess. Breaking and entering?'

'Among other things.' Gordon deadpanned with a look of suffering at the breaking and entering jibe. 'He's known locally as Sheppy Sinclair. Address is the local homeless shelter.' He paused to consider something. 'Why would he be in a Santa suit?'

Bullock made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. 'Seriously? It's a classic.'

Gordon's eyebrow rose. 'What's a classic?'

He really shouldn't have been so surprised that Gordon had little to know on street tricks. But seriously, this was a no-brainer. Bullock leaned forward and pointed the pathologists report at him. 'Alright. You're homeless, you're desperate for cash and it's the holidays. What do you do?'

Gordon shrugged. 'Find a job?'

'Not exactly. You find a Santa suit. Doesn't have to be a good one, just good _enough_. Then you get a bucket and stand on a street corner. People don't even look at you, let alone ask what charity you're collecting for - they just dump money into the bucket. There are dozens of Santas on every street corner. Easy buck.' Bullock sat back in his chair heavily and flipped open the report again. 'Poor Bastard. Bet he wished he'd picked a different corner.'

'So if we find out where Sinclair got the suit-' Gordon muttered.

'We find out where Calendar Man's hunting ground is. And it beats sitting around here, waiting for Bernie and the squint-squad to get contestant number two.' He jabbed a thumb toward the crate that had been taped off in their absence.

'Yeah.' Gordon sagged.

But first, you can go and see Ed.' Bullock grunted as he wrestled with a very long winded conclusion.

Gordon paused and then groaned. 'Really, Bullock?'

'Hey, if you want me to throw him out the window, just say.'

Gordon grumbled but picked up his coat. 'You owe me for this.' He warned.

'I owe a lot more to people a lot scarier than you, kid.'

* * *

A/N: Well, it's been some time, hasn't it? I do apologise. Now there's a reason I'm updating Grinch and not Morgue Files. You see - It's not back on in the UK yet! Would you honestly believe that Celebrity Big Brother has taken over it's slot? I'm ashamed and appalled. I want Gotham back so I can write more Morgue Files!

Anyway, Hello watchers, commenters, favouriters, pit-stoppers. Have a chapter, see you soon!


	6. Hungry Work

**Chapter 6 - Hungry work.**

Bullock didn't like sending the kid off, but some things he wouldn't have the kid witness. What he was doing wasn't exactly bad, per-se but it had the same shape and feel as something bad.

He waited a beat before pushing away from his desk and sauntering down to the precinct floor. The decorations had this strange, musty smell to them that were only apparent when you got close. Heavy with mould, dust and just a splash of alcohol past. The Drunk Tank patron had been shuffled off and night was fast approaching. The precinct was experiencing a welcome lull between the usual daylight robberies and night-time boozefests. The Drunk Tank would soon fill with more than Santa sloshed when the bars turned out but now it was peacefully quiet.

Somewhere in the distance that stupid _Frozen_ song was playing for the fifth time.

'Hey Alvarez.' He greeted warmly as he loomed over his colleague's desk. Nothing too terrifying, just someone asking for a spare pen, some chit-chat here, some info there. 'What's happening?'

The officer gave him a condescending look with his phone clamped to his ear. 'What the hell do you want Bullock?'

Harvey shrugged like a man accustomed to varying degrees of irritability in his presence. It was a talent really. 'Nothing much. Just wanted to _remind_ you about a certain favour you owe me.'

Alvarez paused in his scribbling. 'What favour?'

'What favour?!' Harvey barked good naturedly. 'I don't know. How about the one where I agreed to cover for you when you go off schmoozing...What was her name again? Candy? Canary?'

the latino cop at the desk glanced left and then right before cupping the phone and moaning. 'What do you want, Bullock?'

'Your list of pimps.'

He snorted and waved him away. 'List of pimps? Right and I've got the Gin-fairy on speed-dial.'

Harvey sighed theatrically, as though this were a great pain for him to do. Actually he'd rather hoped that it would come to this. He did like to remind the shop floor occasionally about a little thing called "Blackmail". Technically, using blackmail on a brother wasn't just dangerous - it was deadly but Bullock made his living by bending the rules.

'I gotta make a call here, Alvarez. It can be to your bit on the side to apologise for cutting your little rendezvous short, or a bunch of angry, doped up men. Your call.'

the other man growled but rammed open a desk drawer and threw a cheap notepad at him in distaste. 'Get out of my sight you fucker!'

'Lovely doing business,' Harvey returned, practically purring. He made his way back towards the rotunda when the duty sergeant caught him.

'Haven't you left yet Bullock? People will be accusing you of working overtime, making them look bad,'

'Har, har Charlie.' He grumbled.

'Oh come on man, you're not still annoyed about this morning's Ho-ho-homicide line are you?'

'Did you know it was Santa?' Bullock demanded.

'Nope!' Charlie grinned. 'That's just the icing on the cake. Now get your ugly face out of my precinct.'

'You wanna talk ugly, you should look in a mirror.' Bullock imparted in a final shot as he walked away from the guffawing Charlie.

He returned to his desk to pick up his coat and hat. It was the end of his shift and what a hellish few hours it had been. Two bodies, a spat over jurisdiction that he was sure was going to bite him in the arse later and-

A file was poking out of Gordon's desk. He could just see the black rubber stamp of evidence lock-up. Well, well. He didn't know whether to be mad the kid had tried to subvert him or as proud as a parent at his move. The kid was smarter than he gave him credit for.

He didn't bother to look both ways before he slid it out of the pile of open petty cases, since there is nothing a cop is more attuned to than suspicious activity.

It was the back-up file, all right.

That was coming home with him.

* * *

His apartment was little better than a slum. An old crate held up his ancient TV, the couch seats sagged noticeably and the cushions were covered in all manner of beer and takeaway. The kitchen was piled high with old dishes. Slum was an ideal description, but it was _his_ slum.

He let himself in and, as was his custom, he slammed the apartment door closed as hard as he could _just_ for that one neighbour down the hall that utterly hated him. Asshole. Like_ he_ hadn't come home at an ungodly hour once or twice and had a party.

The bag in his hand rustled as he pulled out a six pack of beer and Thai food.

Just about to bin the bag when he felt the file lining the bottom. That came out and hit the coffee table with a sad little noise.

The bag was stuffed into the overflowing bin as he cracked open the first bottle. The old, dusty TV went on and Bullock flipped to the news as he took his first swig of beer.

_"-Police had little to say about a recent body being found in a public park. Witnesses reported he seemed to have been dressed as Santa Claus-"_

Bullock grunted and took another swig. Lovely, the press were going to be all over them and that meant Essen would be all over him to solve this quickly or pass it on to MCU.

_"One thing's for sure, the kids of Gotham may be disappointed this Christmas."_

Funny. Hadn't Fish said something similar? The thought of Mooney's Nightclub soured him somewhat and he reached forward to rip open the carton of Thai food he'd actually paid for, for a change.

His eyes fell on the file as he forked the first mouthful of noodles. With a frown he flipped it open. He didn't need the pictures to remember, but he tipped them out anyway and scanned them as he chewed industriously.

It was just as bad as he remembered. The torn banners, the haunted and drawn faces. The hospital shots of that poor bastard that dug himself out of his own grave.

He dropped the Thai food and took a long gulp of his beer, careful to avoid the slight tremor in his hand. It wasn't exactly fear - it was rage. Rage at Calendar Man and himself.

With a disgruntled noise he pushed the file away from him and laid his feet on the slightly sticky coffee table, reaching for the Thai food once again when he felt his phone.

One glance at the screen indicated it was Gordon calling.

'What? Don't tell me you're angling for overtime 'cause I don't do overtime for-' He mumbled around the plastic fork.

'Bullock, there was a file on my desk-' Gordon began and Harvey could almost feel the angry question straining. His lip curled up.

'Kid, there are a lot of files on your desk,' He replied.

'It was from evidence lock-up.' Gordon added and Harvey's eyes found the file splayed across his coffee table.

To be a bastard or not be a bastard - that was the question. He took a sip of beer in thought. 'Sorry Kid, haven't seen it. Good luck finding it,'

'You have it, don't you? Bullock you -' He ended the call on Gordon and sat back with a smirk to watch the rest of the news. Honestly, it was the little things that made this job worthwhile.

* * *

A/N: Gotham starts again soon in the great British isles - March!- and I cannot wait. My love of Harvey Bullock has re-emerged so have him being his horrible best. I admit, this is filler - fun filler. The Notepad will feature in the next Grinch chapter.


	7. Your worst nightmare

**Chapter 7 - Your worst nightmare.**

Harvey Bullock woke with a start. His eyes dancing around the room as sweat cooled his skin and he shook the last vestiges of sleep from his system. The TV was still running on infomercials, casting an eerie glow around his apartment. The remains of the Thai food had spilled across his gut.

With a groan, he sat up and ran a hand down his scraggly beard. Tried to recall the nightmare that had left him a shaking mess.

It wasn't hard to picture the scene - it was captured in the photographs. Bright spring day, the sun was shining, flowers everywhere - bodies littered as far as the eye could see. Mangled, bloody sundresses hanging from trees and mottled limbs. The smell of burning hair and the eerie silence.

The people he'd get to first were always different. The people he saw when the bodies were rolled over to reveal the face were always different. Could have been anyone from a case he was working to his closest friends and colleagues. Could have been Alvares, Essen, Ed. It wouldn't have surprised him. Hell, once it had been Bernie - her thick glasses askew on her surprised little face - her freckles standing out against the morgue white skin.

This time it had been the unknown prostitute. Her bleached blonde hair plastered to her face with blood. Her overly done make-up made her look like a painted doll. When he'd approached, she had been wearing the whitest of sundresses, but when he saw her face - that had changed to the streetwalker attire she'd been found wearing when they'd opened the box.

He stumbled back at the sight of the lifeless eyes and the bobbing, unsupported head as the body settled into the new position.

He stumbled back, tripped on a tree root and into another body - that of a six year old whose torso had been torn open by the bomb in her egg. Slimy, still warm entrails fell into his hair and he yelled in terror and went vertical so fast that he was sure his spine had snapped and hastily tried to rub the blood and the entrails from his hands.

And then he'd woke up - cold sweat cooling his damp forehead. He sat up and spent a few minutes wiping the remains of dinner from his fingers and grumbled.

Forgotten to turn the thermostat down again, hadn't he? He still shivered all the same, but it had nothing to do with the blizzard going on outside his grimy window again.

He wasn't going to sleep tonight. He didn't think it was possible after that nightmare. His eyes once again fell onto the photographs of that day in the park - the Easter egg hunt that Julian Day had rigged and felt something in his gut twist.

That bastard wasn't going to get away again.

As he stood to get another beer from the fridge to cool him down, he felt something shift in his pocket and dug a hand through the various napkins and receipts he kept. It came out with a little booklet that he remembered Alvarez had given him. It was his list of protection paying pimps.

If you wanted to remain in business in Gotham you paid the mob and you paid the cops a percent of your earnings to ignore you. A cop has to have another source of income since Aubrey James had once again cut all bonuses for the serving police, raided their pension pot and downsized the force to fund all his promises and projects.

There were plenty of good, honestly policemen who would show Aubrey James the meaning of the words "Police Brutality".

He looked to the fridge as an idea seemingly struck him - most streetwalkers worked late into the night, as did their pimps. Would it be so hard if he paid them a personal, face to face visit?

* * *

At 9 am exactly, Harvey Bullock poured himself into his desk chair and groaned heavily. From across the adjoined desks, Gordon raised an eyebrow.

'What?' Bullock growled at his partner.

'You look like crap.' Gordon noted, his eyes roving from Harvey's wrinkled, noodle stained suit to the enormous bags under his eyes, 'Did you get any sleep last night?'

'I had a few hours.' Harvey acknowledged and sniffed his heavy duster jacket. It reeked of bad bars - cheap beer and cigarettes.

Gordon remained silent, drawing him out but Harvey was too good for that technique to work - besides the silent treatment only aided his ongoing headache.

'Come on man, where've you been?' Gordon demanded.

'Detecting.' Bullock replied. 'You know, my actual job?'

'Right.' Gordon sat back as Bullock closed his eyes and pulled his hat down over his face.

'Her name was Stacey Mook.' He mumbled from underneath the hat.

'What?'

'The prostitute's name, genius. Stacey Mook. Run it.'

'How the hell do you know that?' Gordon demanded to know.

'I'm a cop. I get nosy. People who have things they'd rather hide like to tell me what I want to know so I don't go poking around.' He yawned.

'Alright, where's my file?' Gordon asked.

'Gee, I don't know.' Bullock muttered, sarcasm dripped from his tone. 'Why don't you go chase up the master file from Allen and his pet bitch?'

'They keep fobbing me off, that's why.' Gordon replied with an angry grunt.

Typical. The MCU were playing dirty with the files. Hard to run an investigation without the master file. It's a good way to make the lead detectives waste extra time and make them look incompetent. If he wasn't absolutely exhausted, he'd go straighten out Montoya and Allen right now but he'd been working all bloody night on his own dime and he'd gotten a name they could tug at.

'Well,' He grunted as he settled in his chair, 'Go be a big boy and run Mook for priors if you're too scared to get the file.'

'Why don't you just hand over the backup?' Gordon demanded. Bullock cracked open an eye, ready to come back with something barbed when he spotted Ed approaching and groaned as the technician coughed to get their attention.

'Yeah, Ed?' Gordon sighed.

'I just wanted to ask Detective Bullock some questions on a file he returned.' Ed smiled.

Bullock cursed as Gordon turned with manic cheerfulness and said 'Oh? He returned a file, did he?'

'The Day file.' Ed nodded. 'Detective, I don't think I have to remind you about inter-department rules, do I?'

'If I ever need reminding Ed, I'll ask.' He huffed.

'Section eight, subsection B - any and all sensitive information regarding crime and/or criminals should remain on premises.' Ed rebuked gently.

Bullock huffed.

'When were you going to tell me that you'd handed it back?' Gordon demanded.

'Never,' Bullock returned honestly.

'Are you purposefully trying to hamper this investigation to hand it off to Montoya and Allen?' Gordon accused and that speared straight through his defenses.

Bullock sat forward and snarled 'I fought for this case. I wanted it bad enough to grovel at Essen for it. I'm _not_ going to screw it over because I want the flyboys at MCU to take such a big, heavy case off my little _baby-cop_ hands.' He hissed.

'Then why?' Gordon demanded. 'Ever since Santa, you've been acting like a Grinch. I thought it was because you hated Christmas but it's not, is it?'

'Detectives,' Ed backed away as they glared at each other so fiercely over the desks that the piles of paper between them should have burst into flames.

'It seems to me,' Gordon muttered lowly and carefully. 'That this case is eating you up inside. You're screwing yourself up over this and _I can't help_ unless I know what happened. _Tell me_ what happened.'

Bullock sighed and sat down heavily on his deskchair. 'Scram Ed,'

The gangly technician took one look at the two of them, unsure about the hostilities he'd just seen and whether or not they were still over a misplaced file before he rather jerkily took steps and walked away to leave them in tensioned silence.

'Come on man, tell me what happened.' Gordon pressed.

Bullock knew that he wasn't going to get away this time. Ed had taken the file with him and MCU weren't going to give them back the master file. Still, talking about it was like picking at a scab.

'The egg-heads in Arkham classify him as a terrorist, because they hate to think there isn't a psychopath that doesn't fit their formulas.' He grunted. There wasn't a classification for Day that couldn't be held under the universal umbrella of Nutjob. 'A couple of years ago was the first time we'd started seeing wierd shit. Wasn't too long after the Spirit of the Goat killer bit the big one.'

'What happened?' Gordon asked.

'It was Easter.' Bullock muttered quietly. 'During the Mayor's annual Easter Egg hunt.' The words were still stiff, Gordon still had to prod him along, but they were loosening up, starting to come easier to him.

'What happened?' Gordon's tone had dropped, became serious - so he knew what was coming, good. The kid had some instinct.

'Like I said, we'd been dealing with some whack-job crimes of late. A guy apparently risen from the grave, a crucifixion - we thought it was some kind of religious nut,' And the worst of it all, the kids. He struggled to get his throat to work as the memory threatened to overtake him like it had in his nightmare last night. 'And then there was the Easter egg hunt,' He grunted. 'The bastard had managed to get his hands on the plastic eggs with chocolate inside and replaced them with bombs. At least two dozen. When you cracked them open-' Boom. He didn't need to say it. Gordon looked stricken. He must've had some experience with bombs, being an army-boy. But there is nothing - nothing like attacks in your homeland. A place of safety and security. It's all well and good _over there_ but in your country, in your home city, it's different.

Domestic terrorists are scum.

Julian Day was scum.

He remembered responding, he remembered the carnage and blood and tears. He remembered thinking - but they were just kids, what the hell do they know? Why the hell did they deserve to die?

'Did you catch the guy?' He asked lowly.

'If I had, I wouldn't have thought twice about capping that fucker in the head,' Bullock snarled. 'Six kids died and an Au Pair who couldn't resist sneaking a bite or two.'

Bullock sat back and ran a hand down his face. 'That was the first time I'd had experience with a national crisis. After the Easter Egg Hunt, Day was spotted haring it over the state border and it wasn't our problem anymore.'

'But you blamed yourself.' Gordon replied sympathetically.

Yeah. He did.

* * *

A/N: look at that! A full length chapter! And here's where we see part of Bullock's obsession with Julian. No-one likes seeing dead kiddies.


	8. Questions

**Chapter 8: Questions**

Gordon returned a little over an hour later with a slim rap sheet. He wasted no time going into dictation mode, his one free hand waving in the air as his eyes skimmed the page for relevant information.

'Stacey Mook, last known date of arrest was last year. Known to associate with Bernard Acaro -'

'That'll be her pimp,' Bullock hummed in satisfaction, lounged almost horizontal in his creaky chair.

'There's no known address for the pimp,' Gordon frowned.

'You don't need one.' A seething voice replied from over the top of Bullock. The man opened his eyes and looked up at Alvarez.

'We don't?' He replied cherubically.

'You arrested him.' Alvarez replied. 'Why you gotta do this to me man? Do you know how many phonecalls I got last night? Why you gotta do this?'

'What do you mean we arrested him last night? Bullock?' Gordon turned.

'He took a swing at me. ' Bullock defended carelessly.

'Thanks to you, my night was ruined. No more favours!' Alvarez snapped. 'And if you even ask - I'm gonna file harrassment charges, assholes!'

He stormed off to Bullock's amusement. 'Guess his date didn't go so well,' He laughed.

Gordon gave him a quizzical side-long look. 'Where did you get the pimp's name from?' He asked suspiciously.

'Here, there,' Bullock shrugged. 'Let's do a recap of yesterday. C'mon I haven't got all day, I'm falling asleep here.'

Gordon reluctantly dropped it to answer. 'We've got two victims, both live and make their living on the streets.' He pointed to the two morgue shots on the tables, next to them were two arrest shots. Neither looked any worse for being dead. 'One was dressed as a street-corner Santa, the other was selling her body - possibly for drugs. Ed and I agree that it looks as though he's picking his victims off the streets.'

'Her pimp, That Acaro guy? Real piece of work. Says she usually works down the docks - gets lots of sailors.'

'He a suspect?' Gordon asked. 'He took a swing at you.'

Bullock shifted.

Gordon groaned - suddenly psychic. 'Tell me you didn't provoke him, Bullock.'

'I may have leaned a little too hard and he snapped.'

Gordon flung up his arms in dismay. 'Of course you did.'

'Hey! You wanna talk about pissing off fellow cops? Why don't you start with you pissing me off?' Bullock demanded.

'I'm not the one disappearing every five minutes!'

'I got Mook's name on my own dime!' Bullock pulled his trump card.

Gordon went to retaliate but caught sight of a file on his desk. The flimsy cardboard bore the medical examiner's seal. 'The medical examiner took a look at the second victim last night.'

'Oh that's rich. Change the subject.' Bullock huffed. He leaned back and resumed his reclined position. 'Go on, tell me what it says.'

Gordon rolled his eyes but read it over, not even bothering to comment on the swiftness of the turnaround. He would have bet the bank on the fact the medical examiner was still just a tithe terrified of Bullock. 'Same MO as Santa. Washed after death, redressed. No signs of sexual assault,'

'Wonderful.' Bullock grunted. 'We got a link.' A link they could continue to pull at - eventually there'd be their scumbag on the other end.

Gordon paused and then frowned.

'What?' Bullock grunted from his desk.

'Says here Sinclair was known for frequenting the docks. Both victims are from the water-front but the courier service used to deliver victim two was half-way across the city. That doesn't add up.'

'Couriers go everywhere.' Bullock pointed out. 'There's nothing usual about that.'

Gordon went quiet.

'Well there isn't.' Bullock grumbled. He hadn't even opened his eyes - he just knew that Gordon was giving him that concussed kitten look he got when he thought he was being condescending and/or quizzical.

'You just don't want to leave the precinct.'

'Damn right I don't.' Bullock huffed. 'It's minus five out there.'

He was staying where there was heating and warmth and if he begged he may even get some Irish coffee. Just the thing for a day like today.

'Fine.' Gordon pulled out his chair and picked up his coat.

Bullock opened up his eyes and stared at him as Gordon wrapped himself up. 'And where do you think you're going?'

'To talk to the courier.'

'Why?!' Bullock demanded.

'To put my mind at ease.' Gordon replied and skipped down the stairs to the bullpen.

Bullock groaned as he pushed his chair back and moved around the desk for the stairs. 'All right already! Wait up!'

* * *

Julian Gregory Day had always been interested in calendars. They changed from region to region, time to time. Each one unique and insightful.

How he loved celebrating them. Each and every holiday - each and every day. The history involved in every date is fascinating.

April 18th - The death of Albert Einstein. July 4th -The declaration of Independence. October 31st - Hallows Eve. The history behind them was mountainous. He did so like to teach as he went - he hoped the police liked their history lesson. Stacey certainly hadn't - but he wouldn't hold that against her. She had been quite afraid - despite the place in history he had chosen for her.

Christmas Day, Boxing Day and...Now what to do for the next one?

He chewed a fingernail in thought.

How could he possibly outdo himself?

* * *

A/N: I'm supposed to be updating Morgue Files right now but my plot bunnies seem disinclined to concentrate on that. So have a chapter of Grinch instead!

Irish coffee is indeed made for days so cold it may feel like hell's frozen over. Sometimes I suspect Bullock - at least my version - is an alcoholic.


	9. Answers?

**Chapter 9: Answers?**

Bullock was not happy to be here. Sure it wasn't the docks - which at five am was so cold that even the scum on top of the water was crackling as it moved. He'd bet he could have walked across to the other shore with enough care - but the hemmed in buildings here only concentrated the icy wind on his exposed face as they walked up to the doors. His nose was red and dripping, his cheeks cracked and red - he'd kill Gordon if he caught a cold from this.

He'd sent the kid off to talk to the desk jockeys as soon as they'd made it into the building since in his current mood, he was liable to blow up if he heard the words 'Customer confidentiality' and 'Warrant' in the same sentence. Gordon was good enough to get around that without too much trouble - and he could sit back in one of their uncomfortable wooden chairs and think about catching a nap as commerce happened around him.

_'Listen, lady! I want this delivered! No if's - no buts-'_

_'Sir please - you've jumped the queue and I - I can't promise -It's Christmas!'_

Bullock cracked an eye open and watched as the burly man attempted to bully his way into getting what he wanted. He'd even pushed past most of the queue and a little old lady in particular who was muttering some very unladylike things about what he could do with his package.

As he watched - the poor flustered counter assistant was floundering as the irate and rude man shouted and threatened to get everyone from the mayor to his "Boys" involved and not one person in the queue looked like they were going to help. Ah, Gotham.

'I'll call the cops myself and tell them you're all a buncha fraudsters and-'

No rest for the wicked, Harvey supposed. He hefted himself up and growled 'Hey!'

Everyone turned to look at him as he marched up to the counter and smiled at the panicked assistant. She barely looked old enough to work and certainly didn't need someone like the iron pumping asshole next to him shouting and yelling. 'Is there a problem here...Darlene?' Unfortunate name.

'I...I uh I-' She stammered.

'What's it to you?' The thug growled.

Harvey placed his Warrant card on the wood. 'I heard someone wanted the police. We're _very_ proactive these days.'

The thug looked from the card to him and then back. 'There ain't no way _you're_ a cop.'

'I'm offended.' Bullock growled, no longer Mr Nice. 'And what I witnessed could be construed as _harassment_.' He hissed with some delight.

'I didn't harass anybody, man!'

Bullock turned to Darlene, all charm and asked 'Darlene...Did you feel pressured? Under duress? In fear? Just nod.'

Hesitantly, she did.

'Harassment.' Harvey concluded.

He almost missed the fist that was launched at his head.

* * *

'How do you do this, Bullock?'

'Shuddup,' He grumbled and held the ice-pack to his head. As if he wasn't cold enough, but he'd put up with it rather than the gonging headache that erupted without ice.

'I was in there for ten minutes, maximum and when I come out you were enacting world war three.' Gordon replied.

Bullock sniffled miserably. There was a time that the little punk wouldn't have had time to touch him before he was bleeding on the floor in cuffs. Now Bullock was back at precinct with _another_ happy customer charged with assault on an officer in the cells and a bloody big headache. He was Mr Popular today.

'You and your stupid ideas will be the death of me,' He grumbled at Gordon.

'I wasn't the one who tried to play hero.' Gordon replied. 'Come on, let me have a look.'

Bullock grumbled but peeled the pack from his head. 'How does it look?'

Gordon pulled a conflicted face.

'Jim, so help me-' He warned.

'You should be fine, it's just a lump and a bruise.'

His head maybe, his ego would take slightly longer.

Gordon sat down heavily and stared at him over the overloaded desks. 'You want to hear what I found or do you want some more painkillers?'

Both. But Bullock had already exceeded the recommended dosage. He'd have to tough it out until alcohol became an option. Maybe he could get away with a liquid lunch. 'Just gimme what you found,' He grumbled petulantly.

'I floated around a description of our perp - no-one had seen him. In fact no-one had even been authorized to deliver anything to the GCPD. So I floated a description of the delivery guy-'

'The courier?'

'Apparently, he isn't on their database.' Gordon replied. Their perp had been right there and he'd let him walk right out of the building.

'That fits. Darlene was telling me that they'd had a break in at their depot a few days ago - one of their trucks had gone missing.'

'Darlene?' Gordon raised a surprised eyebrow. Bullock supposed that was meant to be his quizzical face.

'You have your methods, I have mine.' He returned and then ran a hand down his beard in thought. 'We had him,' Bullock deadpanned. 'We had him and we didn't even-'

'Yeah.'

'You're an idiot.' He huffed.

'Says the guy with an ice-pack on his head.'

Gordon dodged the badly thrown missile with a laugh as Harvey Bullock - despite the raging headache - told him where he could stuff it.

* * *

A/N: Oh man, this is my favourite chapter to date. poor Bullock barely avoided egg on his face, but he does have an egg on his head. Gonna need more ice there Harv.


End file.
